Bleeder
by Morturtle
Summary: Bleeder is a Bleeder. To put in simple terms, she's the ultimate stress reliever: if you're feeling down, pay her and she'll let you beat the crap out of her. When she ends up working full time for Commander Radon, her life ends up going completely batshit. Watch and learn, kids. *All characters, save Bleeder, are owned by the creator of "War of the Dogs," a webcomic*


**Hi! I've decided to write a fanfiction for a webcomic I love to pieces, "War of the Dogs." It is truly excellent, and please note that everything in here belongs to the creator of the comic, not me. Well, technically I own Bleeder, but we won't speak of such things. :)**

**You should also know that you don't really have to read the comic to understand this story, but you should read it anyway because it is awesome.**

* * *

In life, you come across these shit jobs, right? But you probably know the saying. "Somebody's gotta do 'em." And when there's money involved, I'll do any job, easy. Well, I guess I won't whore myself out or anything, I'm not that cheap and if I screw anybody the bad memories will come back and even money isn't worth that. But I found out pretty quickly that there are other jobs that nobody's willing to do but me, and hey, that's pretty cool. I'm the only game in town; they pay a lot for me.

You can call me Bleeder. I guess that's more along the line of my job description, but again, I'm the only Bleeder so I can call myself _the _Bleeder and nobody will ask any questions. Life's not bad for me, as long as I've got enough cash for my good friend, Mr. Jack Daniels. And I usually do. I'm pretty much the embodiment of fucking awesome, all in one scrappy chick with a whole bunch of scars.

Right now, I'm lying on a pallet on the floor of my one-room apartment. My entire body feels like shit, which makes sense because the shit was just beaten out of me. Blood is running from my eyebrows to my upper lip, and I'm pretty sure a couple of my teeth are stuck in my hair somewhere. I've got big fluffy hair, like a lion or whatever. Pretty cool, when people aren't grabbing me by it and shaking me around. The big hair is often a target, don't ask me why.

One of my bruised hands holds the money against my flat chest (fuck you, Fate, fuck you.) I got good money for this one. See, this guy's wife just left him, and he needs a place to release the pent up aggression, am I right? Hitting a pillow isn't working anymore. Enter me, Bleeder, ready to bleed and not overly-concerned about pain or any of that crap. He hands over the money and proceeds to lay it into me. I take it like a man (it's funny 'cause I'm a girl) and when he's done I crawl back home. I get even more money from this than from prostituting, I bet.

Idly, I blow a bubble of blood and wonder when I'm going to die.

It's gonna happen, and probably soon. Someone will get carried away and I'll end up with a knife in my throat. Ah well, it sucks but I'm not too worried about it. Living life to the fullest, I'm cool like that, you gotta love me. I'm providing a common service for the greater good. I'm used to being kicked around like a mutt, maybe even enjoy the exhilaration. It doesn't really matter.

I somehow manage to turn onto my side. The blood has pooled on the linoleum underneath my pale cheek. I poke it with a finger and my eyelids flutter, perhaps trying to drown me in sleep. I don't really want to sleep right now, not when there are bars just calling my name, but if I try to stand now I am gonna kick the bucket. My heart will just stop like _that_, and I'll be deader than dead and of no use to anybody.

Sleepy time for the Bleeder.

* * *

When I wake up, there are hands and they are touching me and I do not like to be woken up like this.

My leg shoots up and there is a girlish shriek and the next moment something is falling on me. I push it off and recognize the messy blonde hair of my friend and probably the only reason I'm still alive, Soupy Goldburgh. I give him a toothy grin and poke him in the cheek. "Try not to stand directly over me if you're trying ta wake me, Soup."

He groans, crossing his legs tightly as he sits up. "Christ, Bleeder," he says, adjusting his glasses and fixing me with a Stern Stare. Soupy's the king of Stern Stares and they sometimes make me feel mildly sorry about shit.

I glance down at myself and notice, as if for the first time, the blood that has crusted on my chest. My shirt is really fucking filthy; perhaps I can persuade Soupy to give me one of those badass military jackets and crap.

"You look terrible," Soupy continues, still glaring. "Have you eaten in the past 24 hours?"

"What?"

"Have you eaten at all this whole week?"

"… What?"

With a grumble, Soupy plops a large bag onto my folded legs. "There's food in it," he says in response to my quizzical stare. "If you eat it, you won't die."

"What is life?" I muse, opening the bag. _Ooh, food smells. I remember this stuff. _"Life's but a poor player who… eh, don't remember the rest. Life's more like a cocky bitch that's constantly bending ya over and fucking ya in the ass."

"That's gross, Bleeder."

"I'm gross," I say, plucking a sandwich out of the bag and stuffing it into my mouth. With my mouth filled with sandwich I can properly assess the damage done to my teeth. Judging from the extreme pain coming from four places in my mouth, it's probably four teeth that I've lost. No worries, though, I heal really fucking fast. I've got teeth like a shark, a pretty much indefinite amount. I wonder if my mom was a shark or some shit. I don't think human anatomy fits with shark anatomy (will have to research this one day, with Soupy as test subject.)

I swallow the remains of the sandwich and reach into the bag for more when Soupy swats at my hand. "No more," he exclaims. "You need to ration it, Bleeder. I'm not coming back until next Monday."

(Soupy only comes on Mondays, probably because my shitty state depresses him.)

"Fine," I grumble, pushing the food off my legs and getting to my feet. I wobble, and Soupy grabs my arm, preventing me from high-fiving the floor with my face. "Thanks, Soup," I say, reorienting myself and taking a few tentative steps without falling. "Don't know what I'd do without ya."

Soupy sighs. "You'd probably be dead," he says. "Why can't you do anything for yourself, Bleeder?"

"I can rendezvous with Sir Daniels all by myself," I protest. "I mean Jack Daniels, by the by. In case ya didn't get the joke."

"Your liver is probably begging me to shoot it," Soupy mutters. "Look, Bleeder. I came here for a reason."

I raise an eyebrow. "Gonna be a client, Soupy? Did a chick blow you over?" I turn to face him, hands on my hips. "Gonna punch me out until the pain goes away?"

"_No_," Soupy stresses. "I have an _event _for you to go to."

"… You know I don't do sex, Soupy. _Especially _not BDSM, ya pervert."

Soupy puts his head in his hands. "It's for work," he says. "We're having Family Day."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"You know how the situation with my family is," Soupy says. I shut my trap, because I do know how things are going with his folks and his bitch of a sister. "I thought… maybe…"

"Sure I'll come," I say, because he never would've gotten to the point otherwise.

Soupy grins. "Thanks," he says. "Nobody will believe me when I say I've got family out there. You're my sister now, okay?" He reaches into the bag he brought and fishes out swathes of fabric. "It's a dress," he says. "Clean. Will you wear it?"

"Dresses aren't my thing, but this bloody shirt will freak people out, right?" Soupy nods. "Alright, then," I say. "I'll wear the dress."

"Family Day is tomorrow," Soupy says. "Just so you know, it's around eight-thirty at night right now. Do you mind if I sleep over?"

"I know what you're doing, Soup," I say, yawning. "You're trying ta make sure I don't go out boozing so's I don't embarrass ya tomorrow."

Soupy rubs his hair. "Well, uh… kinda," he admits.

I shrug. Alcohol is lovely, but I have real food in me now and I can wait a bit before drinking again. What can one day hurt? "Whatever," I say, collapsing back onto my pallet. "Wake me up early so's I can put on the dress."

"Sure," Soupy says, and he maybe says something else but my eyelids are flickering and I don't quite make it out…

* * *

This time, Soupy wakes me up by nudging me in the side. I groan, cracking open my puffy eyelids. I probably have a black eye or two, which is irritating. I hardly look badass when I can barely open my eyes. Besides, I really do want to make Soupy feel good today. He's my only friend, and although I've never mentioned it to him, I care about him a lot. He's a good guy.

"You look worse than you did yesterday," Soupy groans, slipping a hand behind my head and pulling me into a sitting position. "Do you _like _this, Bleeder?"

"Nah," I say. "But it's worth it for cash."

"Not everything is worth it."

"Yah, but I can _handle _the pain, Soup. So's it's worth it for me."

"You're crazy," Soupy mumbles, tossing something soft at me. I recognize it as the dress, and spread the fabric out with trembling fingers.

"'S nice, Soup," I tell him. "Now turn around and I can gets the changing started." Obediently, Soupy turns the other way and I strip off my bloody shirt. The dress clings to my frame as I pull it over my head. It is a nice blue color, and the leggings I have on are black. I'm too lazy to pull them off so they'll stay, kay?

"Alright, Soup," I say. "It's all good, you can turn around now and I won't be starkers."

My friend swivels his trunk and gets up from the floor, extending his hand. I grab it and allow myself to be pulled to my feet. "Come," Soupy orders, pulling me gently in the direction of my bathroom. He deposits me in front of the cracked mirror and turns the tap on, snagging a probably dirty washcloth from the corner of the sink. I look into the mirror and see a haggard face staring back, covered in dried blood, with black eyes and gaunt features. My black hair is tangled and probably streaked with blood as well.

"I'm a mess, Soupy," I groan, hissing when he presses the washcloth to my face. "If I keep it up at this rate I'll be dead in a year."

"Exactly," says Soupy darkly. With every gentle swipe of the washcloth, another swathe of blood is erased from my skin. "I worry about you, Bleeder. You're a good friend and I don't want to lose you."

I'm not sentimental, so I'm not gonna say anything nice. "Meh. Wouldn't be much of a loss, Soupy m'boy. 'Cept for all those people that like having a punching bag around, the world ain't gonna miss me that much."

"Don't talk like that," Soupy says, dropping the washcloth. "And try not to go haywire today, alright? I know how you can get."

"Whatever do you mean? Crazy, batshit, psycho, insane? Me?"

"Yes, you," Soupy says, motioning with a finger that I should accompany him. Together we exit the bathroom and then my apartment, walking into the dingy hallway. The stairs are rickety and dangerous, and beaten up as I am walking down is a challenge, but Soupy holds my arm and I don't end up meeting and greeting with the floor.

When we walk into the gritty air of the morning, I squint and try to ignore the aching from my skin. "Arrah, Soupy," I complain, mostly because I know that it will annoy him.

Sure enough, he takes the bait. "Why do you always say that?" he asks me. "What is 'Arrah?' What does it mean?"

"I'll never tell," I say. Honestly, it's just my version of "Ahh," the universal whine, but I think mine sounds cooler and I know it drives Soupy nuts, which is incentive enough to use it.

Soupy begins to walk, and I follow him. The Tempest base is so close that even I'm not worried about fainting on the way there. My neighborhood is in no way residential; my apartment building is the only one for about a mile or so.

The street and sidewalk is replaced by a massive grey wall strung with barbed wire. There is a steel service door in front of us, and Soupy walks towards it with his fists jammed in his pockets. He raps once on the door and it swings open, revealing a freckled face. The boy looks about Soupy's age, and he nods briskly when he sees me before throwing something at me. Instinctively I reach out and grab it, and blink at the heavy fabric in my hands. "What?"

"It's a complimentary military jacket for Family Day," the boy says, his eyes darting right and left. "Put it on, please."

Something about the kid seems off, but I doubt there are explosives hidden in the pockets. Shrugging (ouch, that hurts) I slip my arms into the sleeves. They're too big, but I didn't expect anything better. "Thanks, Private," Soupy says, grabbing one of my dangling sleeves.

The creepy gray concrete of one of the main buildings lies ahead. Standing in front of various entrances are dark-faced guards who ignore myself and Soupy. "Where are their families?" I ask Soupy.

He shrugs. "Guess they don't have any," he says, avoiding my gaze. I frown; something is definitely amiss with this situation and I'd like to know what it is. Soupy pulls me through a door and we have entered Tempest base. The corridor we are in branches and forks and I don't know how anybody finds their way around this place.

"Soupy," I say suspiciously, watching people hurry past. I'm pretty sure I'm not seeing any family members here. "What's going on?"

He snatches my hand, as though he is preventing a hypothetical escape on my part. "I guess nobody brought their families in after all," he says, yanking me through corridor after corridor. "How strange!"

"I'm serious, Soupy," I say, and then shriek as he yanks a door open and shoves me through. I stumble and soft hands close around my elbow.

"Are you alright?" the blue-haired woman asks, her lips curved as though they are trapped in a perpetual pout. Her eyes flit across my face and body, and she frowns. "This is worse than you said, Soupy."

Breathing heavily, Soupy moves to cover the door. "Yeah," he admits. "She went out again last night, I think."

The woman smiles at me, although the smile is tinged with worry. "Why don't you sit down on that table over there?" she asks me, starting to tug me over to said table. "My name is Nurse Nitro, and I'm just going to look you over for any internal damage…" She trails off at the murderous glare I'm giving her.

"Fuck you, Soupy," I say, looking over my shoulder. "An army nurse? Really? You planned this?"

"I'm sorry," he says, looking at the floor. "But I wanted someone to look over you. You're really scaring me, Bleeder."

"I hate you a lot right now, you fucking piece of— MMLP." That last bit is due to the gigantic cotton ball Nitro has stuffed into my mouth. Furious, I try to pull it out but she slams me against the table and slides me on top of its cool surface. I flail, but Soupy hurries over and snags my arms, pressing them against metal. I can feel him tightening something around each arm and Nitro is doing the same and now I can't move.

"Sorry," Soupy says again. I can't speak anymore, but I'm hoping the glare I'm giving him will help to show just how much trouble he's in with me.

"Alright, Bleeder," Nitro says. "I'm going to be probing your stomach for organ swelling. Make some noise if anything hurts, alright?" She presses her fingers against my stomach lightly and begins moving them in circles. "Does this hurt?"

"HmmhmmHMM, hmiihmmhmayhmm, hmhMM." Translation: "If it hurt, I'd say something, dumbass." Nitro seems to understand the meaning behind my muffled and garbled speech, because she continues probing my stomach with that kindly look of concentration on her face. Fucking do-gooders, they get me every time.

Speaking of do-gooders… Soupy is still staring down at me apologetically. I narrow my eyes and he takes a step back. _That's right. Be afraid, be very afraid. Bitch._

"That's it," Nitro says. "No internal swelling, Soupy. I think she's alright."

"What about brain damage?" he asks. I raise my eyebrows as though the very notion of brain damage affecting me is astonishing.

"I'm no expert there," she admits, "but I don't think Bleeder is suffering from any sort of brain damage, Soupy. She seemed remarkably coordinated when she was fighting the two of us off." Nitro turns to me. "Despite Soupy's obvious concern, it appears as though you're in better health than you look, Bleeder." _Yah, I knew that already. You coulda just _asked _me, but nooooo. _

"I'll let you loose," Nitro says, reaching across my body to release my arm. As soon as she does so, I spit the sopping wet cotton ball into my palm and hurl it at Soupy. He tries to bat it away, fails, and grimaces as it bounces off his cheek and hits the floor with a sickening plop.

"Still mad?" he asks, as Nitro releases my other arm. I sit up with a tiny hiss of pain.

"I've just started to be mad, Soupy," I growl, crossing my arms over my chest. "And unless you've got a billion dollars and three pounds of chocolate in those pockets of yours, then yah, I'm still mad."

"I do have a chocolate bar!" he says brightly, yanking the half-melted thing from one of his pockets. I slap my forehead.

"You've managed to completely miss the point, Soup."

By now, Nitro has freed my legs. "Bleeder," she says, grabbing my ankle. "Look at me." I'll give her the benefit of the doubt, but I'm still not a big fan of blue-hair here.

"What?" I yawn.

"You _can't _keep on doing this to yourself," she says sternly. "Not unless you want to die."

I shrug (god damn, that still hurts.) "Yer point?"

She sighs. "No more drinking, and no more Bleeding," she says. "You'll kill yourself otherwise, and you can say what you want but I bet you don't really want to die."

"I don't _want _ta die, per se," I tell her. "But somebody's gotta do the job, and I'm the most qualified in the whole world, probably." I grin. "Even my name's just asking for it."

"You named yourself Bleeder," Soupy reminds me. His voice is quiet because he _knows _he's venturing into dangerous territory (my old name and old life are not something I'm willing to discuss here, or ever.)

I give him a dangerous look, the smile slipping from my face. "Enough of this," I growl. "I'm going home. Destiny awaits and whatnot." I slip from the table and head for the door. Soupy's face is hopeless but he doesn't stop me as I turn the handle and HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK MY NOSE.

Despite the blackness dancing in trippy patterns around my eyes, I am still conscious enough to recognize that I just walked into a chest so solid that it practically nose-fucked me. (Is nose-fucking a thing? I hope to God it isn't.) A hand closes around my neck and I find myself dangling in the air, staring into the black-coated chest with the gold buttons and the slight blood splatter from my nose.

"'M not paying for dry cleaning," I mumble, waving my hands sluggishly. The hand tightens and I choke. "'S not my fault!" I sputter, feeling blood running from my upper lip to the inside of my mouth.

"Isn't it?" The voice is deadly calm, and I feel myself being tipped backwards and I am looking into the face of Death.

Actually, it's just the face of some purple-haired guy with a red eye of doom, but he and Death are probably twins or something. Remarkable similarity.

The thing about this guy is that he looks like he's ready to punch the living daylights out of someone. In this case, that someone is me. And hell, I don't care what he does, as long as I'm charging for it.

"Commander Radon, sir!" Soupy exclaims. I can see him from my peripheral vision, and he looks quite anxious. _Bet this guy is a bitch to his subordinates. _"I'm so sorry; Bleeder is just a bit brain-damaged. She'll most definitely cover any expenses, sir."

"Nuh-uh," I say, dooming myself but also securing the deal. "Won't pay for nothing."

"_Bleeder_," Soupy exclaims, giving me the Stern Stare to the max. Whatever, too late to go back now, ya know?

"Bet yer pissed at me!" I sing. Radon's eyes are narrowed and his hand is pretty tight, but at least I'm not dead or anything. "Why doncha take out yer anger on a willing participant? Beat on me all ya wants, but you've gots ta pay me in the end. Sound like a plan of some sorts?" I kick my legs.

"What makes you think I need to _pay _you to beat you up, you little brat?" Radon hisses. Ah crap.

"If ya assault me, they'll probably fire ya," I tell him. I really have no idea if this is true or not. Whatever. "'Taint assault if I'm willing!"

Radon wrinkles his nose. "You do this for a _living?_" he exclaims.

"Yah," I tell him. "I'm a stress-reliever of the fanciest caliber and whatnot."

Although his face remains completely stony, his grip on my neck goes slack. I, being the totally unprepared person I am, fall to the ground with a smack and a tiny yelp of pain, seeing as my nose is now pressed against the floor directly between Radon's boots. "Kissing my feet?" he asks, sounding amused. "And we only just met."

"_Bleeder." _This is Soupy, who is holding my elbow and hissing into my ear as he pulls me up. _"What the hell?"_

It'll be too obvious if I answer him, so I shrug him off. "We have a deal or not, Radon?"

"Commander," he corrects me smoothly. "Do you know why I came here in the first place?" He isn't looking at me anymore; his eyes are fixed on Nitro. "You said that I was too _stressed_, right?"

Nitro looks extremely apologetic. "Yes, but I…"

"And I have the world's _best _stress-reliever right here," Radon continues, smirking. "I don't think I'll need any pills now, Nitro." He grabs my shoulder hard enough that it burns. "This should work out quite nicely for all of us, wouldn't you say?"

Both Soupy and Nitro look horrified, but their mouths stay closed. _Alright, Radon's got a buncha influence. Maybe after this he'll recommend me to his other soldier-ly buddies._

"Come along, Bleeder," Radon says, directly into my ear. "We should discuss your fee."

"We should indeed," I say, waving cheerfully to Soupy. He looks legitimately pissed at me, which is crazy because Soupy almost never gets angry with me. No matter how hard he glares at me now, come Monday he'll be back in my apartment. He can't resist my charisma and general air of awesome.

Radon turns me around and we march out the door and into one of the hallways. I've got no clue where we're going, but it doesn't matter because I'm sure somebody will show me out when we're done here, right? Or I'll just lie in a bloody heap on the floor for a couple hours. I'll survive. I always do.

I'm the Bleeder, the one and only, and it'll take a lot more than a couple of punches to kill me. _Let's see whats ya got, Radon, _I think. _I'm looking forward ta this._

Yah, Soupy's right. I'm most definitely crazy.


End file.
